


A Series Of Epilogues

by MotelsandDiners



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, Bittersweet, Cas is a sweetie, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, Lucifer is low-key jealous all the time, Sass, Sweetness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-02 10:11:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17262359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotelsandDiners/pseuds/MotelsandDiners
Summary: All the possibilities, the could have beens, the maybe still will be's...It'll be here. Based on a WIP but not explicitly connected to it. Might be a good idea to read the work it's based off of. Of course, if you're cool with being slightly confused, read on, friends.





	1. A New Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Like the summary said, loosely based off of Crossroads and things to come within the series. Not directly in line with the story, it branches off into what could be. So, it's essentially an AU of an AU, because I'm not complicated enough. Won't solely be Lucifer/Reader, might throw in some Castiel/Reader because I just wanna indulge myself.

He’s still quite…shocked? Yes. That’s a good word for it. Shocked. He’s shocked. Shocked to see you alive and well, eyes bright and full of life and hope and laughter as you lean back on your forearms and relish the fair weather. Your clothes, new, fit like custom made gloves and appeal to your new nature perfectly. Dark, but sanguine, and soft. What else fits, though he’s loath to admit it, is the angel at your side.

The Father of Sin. The two of you compliment one another. He can hardly believe…

Even with the hatred breathing inside you, you sit next to Lucifer and crack jokes. But he supposes there’s an age-old camaraderie between you two, between the power inside you and the angel at your side. There’s history. Bloody and raw, and old. Kept history that creeps and skulks in shadows and whispers to you in the height of day. A history that hasn’t gone stale, but matured, grown.

Castiel doesn’t doubt that there’s a fissure, a hair’s width, of the bond between you and the fallen angel. The relationship will never be whole again. But it’s functional, and familiar in an aching sense, and just safe enough that you and that broken angel can sit on the crumbled wall of a fountain and reminisce with jovial tones. Can be familiar enough to lean into one another as you laugh uncontrollably…

Castiel aches.

He can see it in Lucifer’s eyes when he catches his breath enough to look at you. There’s baggage, eons of it. There’s anger, loathing, regret, envy. But there’s guilt, and hunger, and admiration, and there’s an edge, a dangerous edge that Castiel has never seen, save in his own reflection when he thinks about you. Possession. Lucifer is obsessed with you.

But whether it’s you, or what’s inside you, Castiel isn’t sure. All he knows is that it burns him inside to see Lucifer look at you that way. As if he has the right.

Castiel bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes iron. He has things he should be doing, but he can’t handle the thought of leaving you alone with Lucifer. His mind would run with ideas, and he doesn’t believe that ignorance is bliss, quite the opposite when it comes to you. He needs to know everything.

He needs to know when the laughter ebbs away into a musing song of sighs and hums, heavy with hidden meaning and companionship. He needs to know when the musing shifts to comfortable silence that warms. When distance dwindles and you and that outcast angel lean shoulders into one another and you lay your head against his shoulder. When talking begins again so quiet that he can’t hear words. When expressions slacken and become more open, and eye contact dwindles to nothing, because hands speak instead.

Hands that have spilled enough blood to soak the earth two times over find each other. Castiel watches, with a pit in his stomach and a nauseating tingle to his jaw, as Lucifer’s wings shake out, large and pitch black, shimmering with archaic authority and power. Layers, thick layers of feathers, primary so dark light gets swallowed up in them, secondary so smooth that light trickles over them like water.

There’s power alone in their appearance.

A dark wing curls around you, almost swallows you entirely, and Castiel recoils. Recoils in the comfort that you find behind that black fold, the way you melt into it, welcome it, and the way that Lucifer relishes in it as well. There’s something sickening about the softness of the moment. Two of the world’s most dangerous beings sitting on a fountain together, snuggled like two teenagers stealing time because their parents don’t approve.

And that’s what Castiel gathers. That’s exactly what it is. The history.

There’s a war inside him. A code, written into his DNA, makes him want to march over and end it, end this scene at the point of a blade. And there’s a sliver of him, a sliver that’s more than a mere sliver, that can understand the stolen moment, the sacredness of it, because he too would kill for one stolen moment with you.

Lucifer’s eyes glow red like the coals of a dying fire…or maybe a fire that’s coming to life. And Castiel watches as your own meet that fallen angel’s with no hesitation, peer past the vessel with no fear, watches your own eyes shift to that color pallet that’s much like fire caught in glass. Striations of yellow and bloody orange, hungry red, burning against your pupils.

An understanding, a relief in finding another of your kind, a sympathetic soul. A knowing of _why_ , of dying to fight against it, knowing the futility and wanting it anyway. A distance so small, but held impassable by divine authority. And there’s anger there, so much _hatred_ flickering in Lucifer’s eyes as he recognizes it, over and over and over again all within the span of a second.

“Barinu okada en tibibipe, Ol zir a miketh, barinu okada. Gen ge en alca.”

Castiel has never heard enochian spoken so…weakly. Like it burns coming out. A plea, broken and tender. An old wound, open and bleeding. Enochian. Spoken usually for a spell, a damning declaration, to cite the old law. Never just to communicate, to beg another for mercy that is not of the same kind. And that’s what it is, a plea for mercy. Like a sheep bleats when it is separated from the herd and injured, bleats for rescue, for help, for mercy. Mercy. Mercy. Mercy.

Lucifer. Mercy. Something he himself has never given anyone, but has been given in abundance and he asks for more? Castiel could spit. _Killing_ Lucifer would be a mercy.

“Barinu okada.” A shake to his voice and closed eyes, wings furling tighter, hiding more, encapsulating this moment in feathers that still smell of soot and gritty smoke. A failure, a betrayal, an insurmountable regret and guilt that you now embody. His forehead touches yours as you silently deliberate.

“Ol zir ge zomdv tibibipe. Ol zir zomdv okada lap tol acocasahe.”

Castiel has never heard enochian come from you so fluidly, so emotively. You know enochian. He’s taught you…but not the entire language. Not enough that you should be able to respond to Lucifer perfectly. Just how old is the history the two of you have?

“Swear it.” Lucifer growls, a hand coming up to curl around the back of your neck, the motion blind, muscle memory. His brow furrows as a silence settles in the second it takes you to draw a breath. “Swear it,” He repeats, voice dropping octaves. “Swear to me, Y/N.”

And there it is. The breath is all but punched out of Castiel with the utterance of your name from Lucifer’s lips. This isn’t about the history, not completely. Castiel was worried- terrified -of that. But he isn’t entirely surprised. It’s impossible to not be taken in by you. You’re radiant, a force of nature, a muse. You’re inspiration and conviction and the possibility of better things, the good days gone by, and the nostalgia of tiny moments like a spring breeze or plucking a ripe apple off a tree. You’re the wire of blood and adrenaline before a battle, the buzz of excitement from death barely dodged.

He can’t define you, not truly because you’re dangerous and turbulent as the sea, and just as vast, just as deep and he wouldn’t mind getting swallowed up by you. But maybe, maybe the method was wrong, because it doesn’t appear to be a short, quick process. It isn’t getting swallowed up, not one huge crashing wave falling over Lucifer. It’s gradual, wave after wave beating at the angel, taking the fight from him with each lap, like water against a cliffside, chipping away bit by bit.

And Castiel doesn’t know if he could sit through that. Drowning. _Drowning,_ that’s what’s happening. Lucifer is drowning in you.

“I swear.”

And under went the Devil, never to breach the surface again. Taken by devotion, dragged into darkness by age-old want never delivered, merely promised. A guilt he carved into his heart, a guilt which left gaping holes, oozing wounds, now soothed but still open and dying the water red as he sinks…A watery grave. He thought he’d burn forever.

A baptism. An eternal baptism in you. Drowning forever, breathing you in. It isn’t without pain, but…

His arms bind you, lift you- his wings spread so abruptly, span and stretch like he’s going to take flight, a few flutter loose and spin around you -settle you in his lap and his fingers dig into your shoulders as you tilt your head back to stare at his wings in awe, at this obscure declaration of victory, of liberation stalled but obtained, and the view of your stretched neck and the admiration you hold of him has his hands raking down your back, nearly tearing through your coat.

…you’re drowning in him too. Right there with him in the crushing darkness, the ostracizing silence of your bond. The only two. Once more. Together again.

Rebellion, a challenge, a proverbial middle finger to heaven when he drags you down to him and kisses you. A rumble of thunder- there are no clouds in the sky -makes him growl and kiss you harder, and his wings descend so tightly around you the world goes dark.

Heaven and Hell be damned, they’re just words to him now. Just words. A distraction to occupy him through all the long years he didn’t have you.

It is like drowning, the way you both need air but can’t seem to find any. And clawing, like you’re clawing for the surface, but at each other.

A rumble of thunder. A crack of lightning. A warning.

But he didn’t listen all those long years ago. Why would he now?

He toed the line until he faced the firing squad and then tried to save himself. And it cost him everything. He won’t come back this time. This time it’s…pure. Maybe because it’s you. It has to be you. He can’t say for certain, not without jeopardizing the safety of this, but he thinks if you were purely human he’d still die for this.

If heaven comes for him again he’ll die this time around. He won’t live without you. He can’t live without mercy.

“Let’s leave,” he says, nuzzling into your neck, fingers dug so tight into your sides he feels your bones. “Go where it’s just you and me.”

“Run?” you question and he hums thoughtfully, drags his nose along your jawline.

“Let’s call it an extended vacation. Get away from all hum-drum of the apocalypse,” He sing-songs into the corner of your jaw.

You snicker, run your hands across his shoulders, “You have a plan?”

“Plan?” he tilts his head back to look at you, irises faintly glowing, “For once, no.”

You laugh heartily, and lay your temple against his, breathe in his scent of burning wood and the land after a rain. “When do we leave?”

He rumbles a contented hum in his chest and unfurls his wings from you, the world comes rushing back rudely, the both of you squinting into the light. He wraps an arm around your back and stands from the fountain, eyes locked on you. They’ve been on you since the two of you first met a year ago, when you trapped him in that holy fire ring and the two of traded threats over the flames licking at his shins. Even behind his closed lids he saw you, he always saw you. Couldn’t get you out of his head, out of his heart, out of his _being_. And now he wants you there.

Lucifer lays a hand on the side of your face, tilts you up to him and kisses you so tenderly it makes him question himself. But when you smile against his mouth he breaths you in and questions nothing else. A powerful beat of his wings and he flies away with you. Runs with you, flees the eyes of heaven, and makes peace to drown himself in you so deep he forgets where he came from.

Castiel leans heavy against a tree trunk, staring heatedly at the broken fountain for answers, for apology, for mercy. A rumble of thunder. He looks up, far on the horizon a thunderhead is moving in and he cracks. Cracks because heaven wasn’t protesting, and if heaven doesn’t care about the union between you and Lucifer…why should he?

“A bluff.” A voice suddenly appears at Castiel’s shoulder and the angel jumps.

“Who are you?” The stoic angel demands, a deep crease between his brow.

The stranger doesn’t supply an answer. “I only ever wanted him happy. But I couldn’t let them be together back then. What’s inside her would’ve done anything to ensure Lucifer’s happiness.” The man shrugs, slight shoulders almost slipping out of the jacket he’s wearing. “But the time was right. Y/N did what I never could.”

“Who-“ Castiel starts again only for the man to disappear just as suddenly as he appeared. Less answers, more questions. The biggest question, the one he’ll ask himself for eternity: Would anything have changed if he told you how he felt? If he had mustered up his courage and told you he loved you? Would that have stopped you from falling into Lucifer’s arms? Would you still be here with him?

Heaven, Earth, doesn’t see or hear anything from you or Lucifer for a few thousand years and when you do come back Lucifer’s mated himself to you, and lost layers of Hell-branded armor. No vendetta, no grand scheme, just content with existence. There’s a giant red-alert when you come back, heaven’s military organizing and preparing for war only to be stopped at the gates by the last person they expect.

God.

They don’t talk. There’s an unspoken acceptance that they both know the other is aware, but communication is never reached. And Lu doesn’t mind, he’s mostly there to reminisce with you. To find the ruins of that fountain and laze on it with you in his arms. His mercy.

“Okada. En okada.” He murmurs, planting a kiss to your temple as he wraps you up in his arms, saying a wordless thank you.


	2. BFF's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's gone from mass genocide and insanity, a superiority complex to...irritating the life out of you. You'll take it, you guess, he's only slightly less irritating than paperwork, so he has that going for him. But not much else.

“Is this what you do all day?”

You look up from your desk, hair held back by the hand you have curled in it at the nape of your neck. He’s standing on the threshold with his hands in his pockets as he swivels his gaze around the room with a disappointed color to his eyes.

“Not all day,” You remark dryly, “Occasionally, I have to go out in the world and beat unruly angels into submission.”

His spine jerks straight and he snaps to look at you. For a moment, he appears to not know how to respond, to snarl and hiss, or blow it off? A hand leaves his pocket to scratch his perpetual 5 o’clock shadow and he simmers down to a low boil. With a sigh he meanders off towards the bookcase, still dragging his nails along his jaw.

Wordlessly, you go back to reading the reports, the requisition requests, the idle complaints, the helpful few suggestions on how to better life within the compound. You’ve been in here all day, since before sunrise. You’ve burned through two candles, and worked your way through three pens, leaving notes and suggestions of your own for Dean when he returns from a supply run. He’s usually the one at the desk, working through the issues. Typically you’re the one doing the heavy lifting, given that normal danger has become more dangerous.

Angels, demons, monsters running amok…You don’t like sending anyone out, but Dean was going stir crazy and after five days of giving you straight piss for an attitude you finally let him go. But you made Cas go with him, as well as Sam.

“Ugh, I’m bored.” He whines from the bookcase, trailing his fingertips sadly along the spines, peeking over his shoulder at you like a pouting dog.

“Don’t care, Luci.” You retort, squinting at a request form for…A bear hide rug, 3 lbs of lavender, and 9 quarts of honey. “What the fuck?”

“Oooh, what? What is it?” In a moment he’s flattened to your back, reading over your shoulder, his hands curled around the armrests of your chair. “Uh- what’s…huh.”

“Indeed,” You agree tepidly, despite the severe crowding you’re being subjected to. You’re nearly doubled over the desk. “He always requests the weirdest shit. Last week he needed four yards of royal blue yarn, 400 paperclips, and three dozen Long-nosed leopard lizards.”

Lucifer clears his throat, “You ever ask what any of it is for?”

You can tell he’s squinting just by the tone of his voice. He takes the form out of your hand and you let it go without a fight. “Nope. Dean did once.”

Lu hums, his heat disappears at your back and with a rustle of his feathers he’s sitting on your desk. “And? What does good ‘ol Eustace Grimby need all this stuff for?”

“The wedding, apparently.” You rake a hand through your hair, wincing as your fingers catch on a knot.

Lucifer cocks an eyebrow, “What wedding? People are still getting married? Oh-!” He slaps the paper with the back of his hand, and grins. Mentally, you prepare yourself for whatever’s about to come out of his mouth. “He’s going to make wedding favors with the yarn and paper clips and release the lizards in lieu of doves. Genius. We should help him set up.”

You snort, drag your hands down your face, and after a moment’s deliberation, rub your eyes. “Yeah? What’s the rug, lavender and honey for?”

“Mmm, the honeymoon, obviously,” He winks when you chuff at him, and then he blinks, realizing something. “Wait. Do you guys actually go out and get him this shit?”

You hesitate. Stare for a second, and then _sliiiide_ your gaze towards the window on the west side of the room. “Oh, wow. Getting late, I should probably-”

“Oh, my Dad. You do.” He slaps the paper onto the desk, and smiles at you, beams, really, like you’ve told him some embarrassing secret. “Nine quarts of honey. How many beehives you gonna tear open for that?”

You huff. “None, Lu. I’ll go to a grocery store.”

He hops off the desk, and plants both his hands on it, _leans_ towards you like he’s got a secret to tell. “The lizards. They have those at a grocery store?” He tweaks his expression, less cheerful, more cheeky, for reasons you can’t comprehend.

“…no.” 

And then he’s squatting down, folding his arms on the edge of the desk and planting his chin on top of them. “You wrangle ‘em up with the yarn? Make little lassos out of it?”

You glare at him, peeved. “No. I’m not telling you the story-”

“Oh, so there’s a story?” His shoulders shift as if he’s making himself comfortable. “And you’re not telling it to me, which insinuates that you have told it to someone.”

You narrow your eyes, roll your fingers into fists and stare at him. “I didn’t _tell_ it to anyone-”

“Castiel.” He says, and you splutter minutely, the action enough of a confirmation for him. “Please, Y/N, you _tell_ eachother everything.” He taps the side of his head emphatically.

You groan at him, and drop your head dramatically to the desk. “Well, he won’t tell you. He hates you.”

“Ugh.” He scoffs. “He’s so petty. I only tried to kill him.”

You lift your head and pin him with a disbelieving stare. “Yeah, how immature of him to not like you.”

“Eh, he should be more like us. How many times have we tried to kill each other?” He smiles fondly at you, and you roll your eyes.

“Oh, yeah. BFF’s you and I are. Thinking about making bracelets.” You say sarcastically, and he gets a gleam in his eye.

“Outta what? Paperclips?”

You smile sweetly, “NO. All the feathers you lose when you try to kill me.”

His good humour drops like a stone. He works his jaw, blinks slow a few times, and then, “What, you keep them? That’s kinda sweet.” But his voice doesn’t have that teasing lilt to it anymore.

You hum noncommittedly, lace your fingers together and drop them into your lap as you lean back in your chair. “I do, actually.” You admit flaccidly, and his eyebrows shoot up.

“You-?” He bites the inside of his cheek, most likely to stop himself from saying something he’ll regret. “What for?”

A corner of your mouth quirks up in a small smile. “In case something happens to you and you need a pick-me up. Dangerous times and all, anything can happen.”

His deep blue eyes spark. “Worried about me?”

You sigh, squint at him. “At the moment? No. But it does occasionally happen.”

He perks up, his wings even shifting, shaking out little kinks. “Yeah? When?”

You roll your eyes again, groan in the back of your throat. “Ugh. Get out.”

“No, really.” He’s genuine, pinning you with an earnest, open expression, patient. “I’m on your watch-list. Seems a little counter-productive, unwise, probably-”

“Probably.” You agree, and he nods at you, all politic and business-formal.

“Why worry?”

You see-saw your head on your shoulders, back and forth, “Not really a choice. More like a knee-jerk reaction.”

He hums thoughtfully, wings drooping by inches, not sure if indicative of his mood or implicative of his thought process. “A little transparency? I worry about you sometimes, too.”

Your eyebrows rise, nearly to your hairline, in surprise. “Me? But I’m…”

“Pretty much indestructible? I know.” He pauses for a moment, glances down at Eustace Grimby’s flavor of whimsical for the week and pouts tepidly. “Just to be clear, I worry about _you_ , Y/N. The _you_ half of the package deal.” He glowers suddenly, expression nearly wrathful, though it’s riveted to the desk.

Without preamble, he disappears, leaving you gaping and confused, and suddenly, inexplicably, wanting to talk to him more. The rumble of an engine pierces your senses, drawing your focus and your thoughts for a few moments. Dean’s come back from his supply run, hopefully he’s filled a good chunk of last week’s requests. Whatever’s left over will go to you and Castiel.

The main gate screeches open as the cars barrel into the compound and make their way to the back, to the warehouses, and to the office. You stack the finished pile of paperwork to the side and leave the unfinished in the middle. You can get back to it in the morning. As you reach for Eustace’s request form, you stop short.

There, on the edge of the desk, glimmering and faintly glowing, soft as silk, is a long black feather dark as pitch. With a furrowed brow, you pick it up. A cool sensation zips up your fingertips into your wrist, and you watch in fascination as the feather dissolves in a shower of sparks. In the next second it’s swinging from a metal chain around your wrist, the size of a dime.

“What?” You whisper to yourself, gawking at it. And after a couple seconds, you’re glowering. Because the chain…it’s made out of paperclips.

The door swings open, and you hastily tug your shirt sleeve down over your wrist.

Dean lumbers into the room, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He talks immediately, all business, “Got all the requests done, except our favorite boy’s. Got the honey, Cas actually managed to find a bear hide rug, but…” He trails off, looking apologetic even as he wraps you up in a one armed hug.

“I’m going to have to go lavender picking?” You guess, sighing into his shoulder.

He chuckles dryly, and slips passed to you to the glass case behind the desk mounted on the wall. He’s intent on pouring himself a fifth of scotch. “Hey, at least this time it isn’t lizards.” He says innocently, but when he turns around, he’s got a knowing little smile on his lips that makes you growl.

“I’m going to kill him.” You hiss, rubbing at your temples, soothing an ache you feel is looming on the horizon.

“Speak of the devil,” Dean says wryly, and points towards the door when you look at him.

A very sweet, tired, trench-coated angel is on his way inside to see you, wearing a soft smile. It falters for purchase when he gets near enough, and he just sort of…slows his walk to a shuffle. And then shuffles on his feet uncertainly when you plant your hands on your hips and stare at him sternly. He swallows, opens his mouth to talk, takes one look at Dean, his smug, shit-stirring smile, and flies his feathered ass to the next county.

Where he knows there’s a very well-stocked greenery that will carry lavender. He doesn’t come back until he’s picked the greenhouse clean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How 'bout those lines, huh? Read between them. *scratches idly at jaw* I'm just the worst :D


	3. Playing With Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Double standards, he pretends they don't exist. He's just above everything, isn't he? Except you. He learns that right quick. You're quite possibly the only person he'd bare his neck for. 'Course, he can't tell you that. Too bad you already know.

“You could help.”

It’s petulant, irritated, coated discreetly with an aloofness that ineffectually masks his wounded pride. It’s suggestive, just an idea, but not an undeniable plea for assistance, so you kick your feet up onto the table, and stare at him, patient.

He flops his arms out the side, “You could.”

You nod. “Yeah.” But you don’t move.

He stomps in a circle like a scolded child and groans. “Forty minutes. You’re just gonna sit here for forty minutes? You could-” he snaps his fingers, though nothing happens, and neither of you are expecting anything to, “And the holy fire would be gone, and we could just…” He whistles a little tune, mimics a jaunty walk, is halted by the shin-high fire, and then looks at you, perked and hopeful.

You nod again, nice and slow…but you don’t move.

“Uuuuuhyou’resuchabitch!” He grouses, and flops to the ground, legs crossed. He’s properly pouting.

You adjust your jacket, tug out the bunched up material around your waist and elbows, and grin at him. “I am. But you’re a dick, so I think it all evens out.”

He rockets up to his knees, points at you, elbow at his side because he doesn’t want to burn himself. “You- You just-…” he sighs hotly, “ _Why_?”

“Because if you get to be territorial, so do I.” you tip your chin at him, smile saccharine, and he sort of checks himself there as he’s trapped in a holy fire ring, on his knees, at your mercy but not in any danger…and he deflates.

“This is about Captain Clueless wrapped up in a trenchcoat, isn’t it?” He murmurs, squints- not in anger but in thought -and takes stock of his chances of convincing you to let him out.

Your lips purse so flatly they’re void of color, and it’s somewhat a pleasure to watch him curl a little tighter in on himself, wings pressing painfully tight to his back.

He holds his hand up, palms out, “I admit…I _may have_ crossed a line-”

“You almost killed him.” You say evenly, but there’s a cold edge, a frozen fury to your voice that makes Lucifer clear his throat and scramble to band-aid what he just scratched to pieces like a pissy cat.

“The angel’s obsessed with you. Can’t take a hint, so-”

“So you almost kill him?!” you’re standing now, and Lucifer shoots to his feet, backs up, backs up as far as he can go and then he just regrets openly, feeling his fast approaching mortality.

“Okay, okay. Look, I won’t hurt a single feather on your special little angel’s back.” Your fists curl and he decides he should really stop talking, but the more amped up you get about Castiel being hurt, the more his pride is poked at, and he just…can’t help it, really. Never could.

You point at the holy fire ring, hold the position for a moment, watch him pale, watch him physically roll his lips into his mouth, and say, “Do not make me come in there.”

He nods vigorously, hands out in surrender again, regards you carefully as you stomp back to your chair. He folds his arms over his chest, tucks his hand into his armpits, and kicks at the ground with the heel of his boot. Sulks around the circumference of the ring, bites his cheek, bites his words, bites his actions harder. Sneaks glances at you, darts away when he finds you already looking, glaring at him, mad as Hell.

In a full five minutes, he’s back to square one, petulant and indignant. “How much longer?” He has the gall to ask you. Like he has places to be.

You appraise him in pity, pout your lips at him, and lean forward in your chair, “Oh, Luci. Honey. The fire goes out when I decide.”

He comes to an abrupt stop,  his front half wobbling. He gapes, looks at the fire, at you, the fire, and then scrunches his brow. “Bull.” He says, but he’s looking a little closer at the fire now, a little more wary, a little more reseigned.

You clasp your hands between your knees, shrug. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.” He swallows jerkily, mood plummeting. You grin devilishly, “Or…” He glances at you, takes one look at your expression and bristles from foot to feathers, all poison and brambles and lavished pride…and then looks at the fire. Reconsiders.

“Or you could guarantee your freedom by doing one little thing.”

He frowns sternly, stubbornly, certain you’re going to ask the impossible. He waits, waits because he doesn’t have a choice.

“Apologize.”

He throws his arms up. He knew it!

“No,” he grumps, and pins you with the most serious, betrayed look you’ve ever been subjected to in your life. Ever.

“Okie doke.” You shrug, net your fingers together behind your head, and lean back to stare at the ceiling. Just for kicks you flare the flames a little higher, and he actually yelps and jumps back.

“That’s not funny!” he whines, and shuffles to the center, wrapping his arms around his middle.

“Aw, poor baby,” You mock, closing your eyes.

He glowers at you, completely ticked. If he wasn’t in a holy fire ring…he’d kill…something. As it is…

You hum cheerfully, whistle, and whittle away your time, content to spend the entire night in the warehouse listening to Lucifer huff and puff and whine. Except…wait. Is…is something burning?

You crack your eyes opening to make sure you haven’t somehow set something on fire when you shoot out of your seat with a yell of disbelief, “What the hell are you doing?”

Lucifer is on the fringe of the ring, pushing at the invisible barrier. His hands and forearms are blistered, mottled, sizzling, fire is licking at his jaw. He’s mean mugging you, like it’s your fault he’s a stubborn idiot.

You’re content to watch him scorch himself to cinders, you really are. Until fire licks at his wings, and he gasps at the sensation. But he just, keeps pushing at the barrier, even as his wings begin to char and flake away into glowing ashes. He’s…calling your bluff.

You fold your arms, and look at him haughtily. If he wants to maim himself to prove a moot point, you’ll let him.

He admires you in that moment, the way you won’t put up with his bullshit, makes him all warm inside. Of course, that might actually be the fire and not the way he feels about you, but, he can sort that out later. He won’t lie, it hurts like a bitch. And standing here, letting the fire climb its way up his wings…it’s agony. He’s nearly to the breaking point when you clap your hands and the fire splutters out like someone’s thrown water over it haphazardly.

He stumbles forwards, right into your hands that cup his face, pour old magic into his wounds…you heal him. Heal his hands and arms, and then slap them away when they reach for you, skirt around him to his back and weave that soothing, gentle, age-old magic into his smoldered wings with such tenderness and attention he feels guilty for maiming himself.

As soon as he’s healed you start in on him. “What the hell was that about? Are you insane?!”

He smiles, pops an eyebrow up, all cheeky like he got away with the whole world. He doesn’t let you get another word in before he has your face in his hands and his mouth on yours. You grunt, displeased, but he just smiles into the kiss, and works it sweetly, all soft and gentle. Slow. Thorough. Pushes a hand back into your hair to cradle the base of your skull and angles you sharper, makes you covet what air you can draw. He feels your hands on his rib cage, scrunch the fabric…you hang there, not sure whether to push or pull, until he twists his fingers in your hair and makes you gasp.

You pull. And he hums against you, pleased with himself. He wants you on common ground because- it’ll sound crazy -he isn’t angry with you. Hell, that petty little tantrum you threw with the holy fire ring? He gets it. He appreciates it, he _knows_. But what he doesn’t know is if he wants you to melt, or burst into flames.

But he feels your fingers unfurl, rest against him softly, and decides he’s had enough fire for one day. You both have. So, he licks across your bottom lip, retreats, and nips it in reprimand when you follow ‘cause he has something he needs to say.

He drops his forehead to yours, breathes in and feels his spine shudder as your hands slip around to rest low on his back. “I’m sorry about your angel.” He mumbles, swallowing his pride, and it’s like eating a brick, or grabbing handfuls of glass. Not pleasant, to say the least.  

You click your tongue, quirk a smile, “ _You’re_ my angel.” You murmur, and stand on tip-toes to capture his mouth again.

He hums, wraps an arm around your middle, and says, “Yeah, I am.” Before he has you on your back on the floor, looming over you, irises glowing a faint red. “And you’re _mine_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, whiny, pouty, childish Lucifer is my favorite. He's such a little shit, love 'im.


	4. Death Is No Parenthesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all have one destination in common, though the speed at which we arrive varies. Humble yourself, death has no prejudice, save for itself. Though that's not to say that death is the end, merely a station where we wait to board the next train. Punch your ticket, and get comfortable, and save a seat if you like. We all meet again, eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the angst. You're welcome. Might I suggest a song? Well, I'm going to anyway. It's what I listened to for the majority of this work.   
> Movement by Hozier

There’s a wire of tangy indecision wrapped around his limbs as he cautiously peels back the blinds of a window and stares out into the murky yard. Shadows shift, zip and ripple, a great mass of black, like a blanket…The world is breathing in shadows. Pin pricks of light dot the expansive dark, eyes. Eyes, watching and waiting, threatening in the silence. He lets the blinds fall back into place, resolute, defeated.

“Lu…” your voice comes out in a croak, weak, a current of fear running under it. “Something is wrong.”

He turns, something witty on his tongue, _No, you don’t say?_ But the words die when he sees you slide down the wall you’re leaning on, hitting the ground like a sack of bricks. He’s at your side before he can decide what to do, hands grabbing you wherever, looking for what’s wrong, but worried about hurting you in some unknown way.

“What is it?” He asks, hand latching to your own as it twists in the fabric of his shirt at his hip. Your hand shakes, and his stomach drops miles, to the pit where his anxieties lie, everyone of them about tragedy befalling you. You cough abruptly, and his heart seizes as blood spurts from between your lips. Immediately, he’s a hand flat to your sternum, sending his grace careening through your body with such fervor that you gasp and whine.

It’s not gentle, it’s desperate and invasive and it’s searching for something to kill, running through your body like boiling water. The world falls away from him when he realizes…whatever it is that’s harming you, it’s everywhere. Soaked into every molecule of your being, eating away, rotting you, only slightly faster than you can heal it. Fruitlessly, he pours more of his grace into you, hoping, though he knows better…

“Lu.” You wheeze, blinking against the onslaught of everything going on inside you.

“No.” he growls, “Shut up.” Even as his grace depletes rapidly,

“Stop. Stop, you have to go.” You grasp his hand, the one pressed to your chest and he bristles, hardens and fills with ire and denial, his eyes glow red,

“ _No._ ” He snarls at you, but his grace stops flowing. He’s almost empty, just bordering the edge, so close to human. “I don’t go anywhere without you.” There’s a terrible shriek from outside, a cacophony of high-pitched screaming that nails on a chalkboard couldn’t compete with, he pretends not to hear it, even as your gaze is drawn to the double doors the two of you boarded with every piece of furniture in the motel.

“Not anywhere, Y/N,” he repeats firmly, sliding a hand to cup the side of your neck, he commits the way you lean for the contact into his memory, burns it into what’s left of his black soul and leans down to press a kiss high on regret into the crown of your head. “I didn’t think we’d get a gentle epilogue…”

Your eyes slip closed, ignoring the shudder of piled furniture as weight is thrown against the door. “But you hoped?”

He chuckles wryly, situates next to you, listens to the noise outside for a beat, and then looks at you, enthralled. He’ll spend his last moments riveted on you, paying attention to nothing save you, he’ll fill the last pieces of his life with you, “I did. I really did,” he sighs, quirks a melancholy smile, “Serves me right, huh?”

You swallow thickly, the tang of iron sliding down your throat, and shake your head softly though it takes momentous effort, “You telling me you didn’t want to go out with a bang?”

His eyebrows pop up, “Oh- yeah. Yeah, but I figured it’d be between me and the old man, hm? After I destroyed earth, killed all the angels- don’t laugh.”

You grin, clear your throat and lay your head on his shoulder feeling fatigue tug at your senses. “That hasn’t been your agenda for a good five years.” You point out quietly.

An end table clatters down from the mountain of furniture against the doors. Neither of you look.

He hums fondly, slips a hand into your own and nets your fingers, “And who’s fault is that?”

“Mine, right?” There’s no mistaking the smile in your voice, the pride, and he turns his head to kiss the top of your head.

“Damn right, all yours.” A single wing unfurls from behind him, curls out, makes a curtain between the view of the door and the two of you. He doesn’t want anything between the two of you, for the next few minutes all that there will be is the two of you. Nothing else. “I think you owe me?”

“Dinner date?” You suggest, tone honeyed, unworried, even as your smile falters for purchase and he swallows hard.

He hums again, in thought, and then after a moment, taps a finger to his lips emphatically, an innocent expression on his face. He’s fraying, slowly around the edges, wants to turn his head, wants to fight and claw and rage, but he denies and pretends and soaks these tense moments with aloofness, like the bitter pill to swallow will go down any easier.

You smile at him, so warm and sweet, and tilt your head up- you’re tired, exhausted, he can see it. Your eyes are bleary, skin a weak shade -and he drops those few inches to cover your mouth with his own. There’s the smallest flutter to your breath, he isn’t sure if it’s from emotion, or from your failing health, but he makes himself believe it’s the former. But the trembling of your lips, he can’t dance around that.

Lucifer reaches a hand up to cup your jaw, holds the weight of your head so he can kiss you like you deserve to be kissed. Tenderly, slowly, with his full attention, warmly. His brow scrunches when you whimper in the back of your throat, and he tastes blood on your tongue. He works the kiss open, languid and smooth and lets you catch your breath before he’s more fervent, desperate but mindful as he winds his hand in your hair and holds you close.

He tastes salt. You’re crying.

He knows it isn’t about imminent death, you don’t fear dying. It’s about the time stolen, the wanting more, how unfair it all was- _is._ It is unfair, it’s utter bullshit!

But he doesn’t growl like he wants to, instead he smiles against your mouth, ignoring the sting behind his closed lids and he links his mind to yours, _Thank you._

Your hand squeezes his, _Before we go can you- can you take us back to that first night?_

Lucifer grins in spite of the mood, _You bet your sweet ass I can._

_It’s slightly different this time around, he knows it is. His memory, his memory of that night is just a little rose-tinted, and that’s what he wants in the end, a little more sugar-coated denial. An ease of breathing, a youthful naivete that life is kind and people kinder, and it’s okay to hope for good things._

_He’s captured the mood of after-glow and preserved it so reverently within his mind. The world quiet, not holding its breath but just slipping off, slinking away for a reprieve. A single candle burns on an end table, shooting glimmering reflections in your pupils as you stare at him heavy-lidded from your place on his chest. His hand runs up and down your back, fingers trailing over the staircase of your spine which minutes ago was bowed, bridged over the rumpled sheets of the bed under the strength of a grace-fueled orgasm. Now every inch of you is pliable and limp, malleable like clay, and he has no desire to knead you. You are perfect exactly the way you are._

_Cliché, but so undeniably true to him that he doesn’t find any humor in it. His other hand finds your thigh and tweaks its position, pulls it a little tighter and the motion nudges his cock still buried in you- you cut off a gasp of surprise, smile at him fondly, he smirks impishly -and he feels so grateful, so appreciative, so fucking fortunate…it’s everything he wants, to be linked with you, to be with you in every sense of the word. Forever._

_As he roves his deep blues over your features he finds every brittle, hard thing inside him melt away until all that’s left is what he feels. That night, this night that you’re both escaping into, he remembers this very moment, remembers the words making their up his throat, sitting heavy as lead on the back of his tongue. He remembers swallowing them down, trusting instead that you just instinctively knew, but that isn’t good enough now._

_As you lay your forearms over his chest and rest your chin on top your hands, he traces the curve of your jaw to the shape of your lips, rumbles a contented hum as you pucker your lips and kiss the pad of his finger, and it spills out of him, warm and shiver inducing._

_“I love you.”_

_There’s a moment of shock, where your eyebrows jolt, and your mouth slackens, where you’re just taken by surprise, wholeheartedly. But you recover quicker than he would have. You beam at him softly, and stretch to press a tender kiss to his mouth, grinning into it as you mumble against his mouth, “I love_ you _.”_

_He grabs your chin, slants his mouth and presses firmly, presses on your chin and opens your mouth to him so he can taste the sweetness on your tongue that those words surely left behind. Like honey. So sweet, so pure. Just like honey._

_Lucifer peppers kisses along your jaw, catches your weary eyes, and battles down the hitch of breath in his chest to ask you softly, “You tired, dove?”_

_You nod slowly, “A little,” You blink at him heavily, dip forward to rub your noses together, breathe in the scent of him, rain and soot. A strange combination but one you’ve grown to adore._

_He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear and cradles the side of your face in his palm, “Sleep, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere,” He murmurs, guiding your head down to lay against his chest. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”_

_One more, one last sleepy kiss to his skin, right over his heart, “I know you will.” Before you close your eyes and let slumber take you, wearing a smile._

_Lucifer bites his bottom lip so hard he tastes blood, anything to stave off the rising tide. There’s a change, a shift in the air, a weight leaving, the room sighs, and he can tell…he’s alone in his memory now. It’s just him. This breathing copy of you on his chest is empty, just a memory. He’s alone._

He opens his eyes to the dimness of the motel room, the thundering noise of impending doom beating at the double doors some fifteen feet to his right. But he’s only looking at you, you, leaning on him. Smiling, but cool to the touch, silent. No drawn breath or flickering behind your eyelids.

His throat tightens harshly, he can’t breathe. But he leans down anyway, plants his mouth to your cold one, pretends one unbidden tear doesn’t escape him and says goodbye. “We’re going to go out with a bang, baby,” He reaches inside your leather jacket, where you keep a pocket knife hidden in the lining, and can’t help himself from pushing another kiss into your temple.

He tears his own shirt to tattered ribbons and takes the knife to his chest, carving runes into his flesh that will turn him into a walking bomb. A slice to his palm, and all he has to do is wait. He’s a moment, only one, where he thinks beyond his grief and rage, and his newborn desire to _actually die_ , that he fumbles your phone out of your pocket and sends a single text to a couple of the biggest pains in his ass that he knows, it simply reads: _Sorry, we screwed the pooch, **hard**. We’re dead. They’re coming. -Luci_

The furniture tumbles to a pointless heap as the doors screech open, debris hitting his one wing still acting as a shield for the both of you. He caresses the backs of his knuckles along your cold cheek and plants his forehead to yours, “I’m coming, baby.”

The explosion can be seen from ten miles out, can be felt from twice that distance, and it’s enough evidence that Dean and the rest of the council don’t doubt the text, don’t doubt the knee-locking grief they feel. They pack up the necessities and are on the road within the hour, blank-faced and silent.

Even heaven has no retort, no smug proclamation of Lucifer’s end. Just radio silence, disbelief, a niggling thread of frayed doubt within their DNA that asks if they were wrong about the fallen angel. It isn’t until four hours out on the road that Castiel, crammed into the backseat of the Impala with Jace and Emily, gasps and doubles over as angel radio flares to life, a message on repeat…no, not a message…

He grasps the front seat of the Impala even as everyone worries over him and asks for answers.

“Cas, what the Hell?! You alright?” Dean asks, reaching back to hold the angel’s shoulder, glancing at the road as much as he can spare.

“Angel radio.” Castiel grits out, his other hand coming up to lay on his forehead as he listens. He’s never heard what he’s hearing, not once in all his years.

“Well, what is it? What are they saying?” Sam asks, a crease between his eyebrows, fearing bad news.

Castiel’s eyes well up, for reasons not known to him, “They’re not talking. They’re singing- mourning,” He turns his gaze upwards, “It’s a lament. For Lucifer-” His eyes well over, and he isn’t the least bit embarrassed by the way his voice cracks when he delivers the next bit of news, “For Y/N.”

Dean brakes so hard that everyone wearing a seatbelt loses their breath. By the time he turns around to demand answers from Castiel, the angel is gone. Dean boils for a good five seconds before he throws himself out of the car and marches into the tree line on the side of the road without a word to anyone. When he comes back fifteen minutes later his knuckles are a broken, bloody mess and he resumes the drive, smearing blood over the steering wheel.

He plays his own kind of lament for you: Stairway To Heaven.


	5. Angel Wings and Apple Blossoms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ending, is always scary because after there's this great gaping hole of unknown. What now? Where do you go, what do you do? Castiel has in equal parts been dreading and longing for calm after the battle. The ending is scary, no doubt, beginning is too. Luckily, he's brave enough for both of you to face it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help myself. I needed domestic Cas living a simple quiet life with the reader. NEEDED IT. Goddammit this angel deserves a break.

He’s taciturn, more so than is usual and he’s aware of it, painfully so. His tongue is in knots much like his stomach, and he’s no way of untying it all, it doesn’t help that his emotions are wound into the pit of his abdomen as well. The cabin is dark, a candle here and there doing little to illuminate the pockets of shadows you seem to drift to and from. He watches you pace, a glass hanging from your fingertips, amber liquid sloshing haphazardly close to the brim.

He wonders how long he can deny his part in this dance, how long he can stand stalwart until you either drag him into it, or you walk away. He’s hung his trench coat near the door, and he misses the weight of it, the security that comes with it because standing here in his white dress shirt and backwards tie…he feels strangely vulnerable. He fiddles with his cuffs, observes you shuffle your way back to the kitchen bar where you’ve got a bottle waiting, half-empty.

Music plays softly from Bluetooth speaker sitting on your coffee table and finds portions of the song appropriate to the situation. He’s recalling your words, your prudence about timing and responsibility and obligation. He just didn’t think the battle would take a good three years, and then the radio silence of six months after when the fog cleared and the world breathed a sigh of relief…He was convinced you forgot all about it. Or maybe you’d changed your mind.

But then you texted him your address along with a simple question: Talk?

Which is ironic because nothing has been said since you welcomed him inside nearly fifteen minutes ago. He’s not thrilled by your choice of locale; three miles out from the compound, nearly in the middle of nowhere, all alone. But he’ll keep that thought to himself.

There’s so much more room between the two of you than the furniture indicates there is. A threadbare throw rug has never looked so intimidating to him before. Regardless, he steps onto it, lays a hand on the back of your couch and breaks the silence that has been strangling him since he walked in.

“Are you alright?”

What a simple question, but he gathers it might have been the wrong one as you set your glass down heavily and sigh. He doesn’t know what the right question is, he knows what he wants to ask, but he’s not sure he could ask without sounding indignant or whiny.

He sighs too, angry with himself, of all things for being so hesitant. But when you’ve got forever all you do is waste time.

“Are you?” You ask him, leaning forwards into the counter, not bother to talk over your shoulder. He can hear you just fine.

Castiel closes his eyes, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “You said you wanted to talk. So, what is it?”

You tap your fingers on the faded wood of the counter-top and tilt your head sideways in easy contemplation. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that we won- still waiting for the other boot to drop.”

Castiel’s grip on the back of your couch tightens, “Is that why you’re out here? So that when the boot drops it’ll be on you?”

“I…” You grit a smile, hold the pose until your lips ache with the falsehood of it, “I’m half expecting the world to fall apart within the next week. Expecting to have to save it again…”

Castiel purses his lips flat, “So you’re putting your life on hold?” Putting _me_ on hold? Is what he really wants to say, but he refrains.

You squint into your glass. “No, no, I’m _not._ Did you notice the garden outside? The solar panels on the roof? I’ve got a mailbox at the end of the drive-” you break off to sigh again, and then grunt into your glass as you drain it dry.

He blinks, tight and slow, like he’s warning off an impending headache. “Yes. I noticed…I drove up here.” He points out flatly, remembering the questioning look you sent his vehicle when you opened the door to him.

“I’m making a life out here. Trying to,” You comb a hand through your hair, rest your hand on the nape of your neck, buried and tangled in your hair.

Castiel shakes his head, throws his gaze around your living room and plants his hands on his hips, “What am I doing here, Y/N?”

The question makes you freeze, stiffen.

He clears his throat, strengthens his resolve, “Three years. And six months.” The time should mean nothing, but the way you stiffen further and inhale sharply informs him that you know exactly what he’s talking about. Your response does nothing to ease his nerves.

“Yeah…” You could use another drink, or four. But you don’t want to be rude.

His teeth grind together in impatience, with nervousness, just a little irritation. “Tell me where you stand, Y/N.”

You inhale deeply and turn to face him, lean back into the counter, and tighten the grip you have on your hair at the back of your neck. “I’m standing in a less than homey cabin, waiting on you to work up the nerve to cross that hideous rug.”

He stares at you, drinking in your words like they’re soaked in molasses. And then he grunts, unimpressed, cocks his head like he’s going to shake it, gives you half of an eye roll and then decides he’s wasted enough time. “That snark…” he grumbles, striding towards you.

A weak smile is all you’re able to give him, you’re still conscientious enough to dread the possibility of botching this. You feel like you have. The strained silence, the way you drank, glass after glass, with intention upon his arrival, the fact that you couldn’t look at him…very misconstrued. Mixed signals. Three years of fighting tooth and nail, nonstop bloodshed and big plays against time, power struggles between Gods and Earth caught smack dab in the middle, and you: having to be the referee…You hadn’t given much thought to the _after_. You were convinced there wasn’t going to be one.

But here you are, here you both are. And he’s so…patient and present, and consistent. He hasn’t changed in three years, not physically.

There’s no hesitation when he reaches you, no second guessing, he’s thought about this too much for there to be any room for error. Hands on your jaw, feet between your own, crowds you and smoothly cuts that space down until he’s inhaling the tail end of your shaky exhale.

There should be an urgency to it, a fire behind the basic motion of pushing you into the counter and tipping your head back. There should be more hunger in the heat of his mouth, should be a meanness in his nipping teeth, but there isn’t. It’s more contained, unhurried, savory.

It’s relief and appreciation and companionship, and it feels like home after being away for so long. It’s a heaving breath, a weight off the shoulders, that last little stretch of anticipation on the drive towards the front door. It’s entirely too long coming, and too long entering.

Linger. He _lingers_ after, forehead resting on your own, his warm hands still cradling your face as he soaks in the peace of the moment, the rightness of it. The wait finally over. He has you. After all the near-death experiences and bittersweet moments, and the companionship, and the brittle goodbyes before battles he wasn’t sure he’d make it back from (and having to be okay with it), he has you.

He smiles, humming with giddy relief, borderline exuberant. He feels your hands land on his wrists, squeeze gently, listens to you sigh through your nose shakily, and he can relate, truly.

“Would you stay? Please?” You ask him softly, not at all prepared to handle the off-chance that he’ll say no. You can’t think that far ahead, think that cohesively, think that humanly. You’re thinking in seconds, in feelings, and needs. Not in probabilities or the dark humor of the universe, you’re not thinking of the score that’s surely kept in regard to your happiness, what happens when you rack too much of it up. “Make it feel like home here?”

A little more contact, from legs to chest, and a sweep of his thumbs across your warm cheeks and he’s already decided. Decided on the drive up here, really. He just hadn’t decided on how he was going to tell you that he wasn’t going to leave. You’ve been home to him since he first saved you, since he pledged himself to you in that dismal meat locker, he’s never looked back.

He kisses the bridge of your nose, unable to stop smiling. “Can I put my name on the mailbox too?”

You chuckle, “Ye- yes. God, yes.” You can’t help it: you laugh and dip forward to rest your forehead against his jaw, not at all minding his 5 o’clock shadow. His hands trickle down your form carefully, wind slowly, smear you against him and you’re all too content to get as close as you can.

You breathe in the scent of him, relaxing into his embrace with an ease that makes him sigh long and sweetly. “Welcome home, Cas.”

He grins widely, drops a firm kiss to your temple and says, “I’ve been home. I’ve just been waiting on you to cross that hideous rug.”

When Sam and Dean come to visit a couple weeks later, equal parts excited and smug, they pause a moment at the end of the drive and grin dopily at the mailbox. It’s slightly dented, and the flag is broken in half, but on the side, written in acrylic paint in two different hands is:

_Castiel and Y/N_

_-Welcome!_

Just below the message is a doodle of black wings, a halo between them, and some kind of fruit blossom below the wings. The wings are simple, slightly shaky, and the blossom is thick brushstrokes, confident.

When they pull up, the two of you are elbow deep in your garden weeding and pruning, and occasionally throwing tufts of weeds at one another with impish smiles that strain to play at being innocent. Sam and Dean make a silent promise to do whatever they can to ensure you and your angel don’t have to pick up a blade again for as long as they live. It’s only enforced ten-fold when they see Cas steal a kiss from you, smiling bright and warm as the sun.

Some people deserve a gentle epilogue. You and Cas are two of them, of that, they’re certain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I might actually have a Castiel/Reader story in the works. Would anyone be down for that?


	6. Peachy Keen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sweet, wholesome, fulfilling, dare he say...perfect? Because that word fits, jumps to mind when he thinks of the life he has with you. He doesn't know how it could any better. He has no idea it's about to get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just weak for domesticCas, okay? Sue me.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” You ask aloud, feet kicked up on the coffee table, head leaned back on the couch as a balmy summer breeze trickles in through the open front door. A glass dangles from the hand of the arm you have tossed up on the back of the couch.

Castiel regards you silently, content to let you mull in your thoughts. Not every question needs an answer, not every question is a question. But he is curious: are you talking about the tea? He carefully sips from his own glass, ice cubes bumping merrily against one another.

Birds sing, and tweet at one another from outside, their jittery songs carried to him through the open door and windows. The curtains sway and flow gracefully like a lazy specter and Castiel watches them for a moment, watches the faint shadows they throw across the well-worn hardwood floor. He feels peaceful, unconcerned with the rest of the world and its problems.

He observes you from the corner of his eye as you drag yourself to your feet wearing a saccharine smile. Your glass drops condensation across the floor as you traverse the living room and step out onto the front porch. Barefoot, wearing a loose too-large-for-you cotton t-shirt, and a lazy bun- Castiel is reminded how smitten he is.

Flowers sit in a vase on the windowsill, soaking in the sunshine pouring through the four panes speckled with dirt and water stains. The two of you will set aside a day to clean the cabin, soon he surmises. The weather has been good for it.

He rolls his fallen sleeves back up to his elbows and reminisces all your shared days in the cabin, and the leisurely drives into the countryside, the impromptu stops just to wander a great field or go for a carefree walk into a forest. His life has been so rich with you lately, so wholesome and domestic, and every atom of his being sings your praises- exists for you.

Idly, his feet carry him to the front door and he leans on the rickety doorjamb, noting absently the chipping paint. He’ll have to fix that, and- he’s just noticed: There’s enough space that he could install a porch swing down on the far left, and the porch itself needs to be stained again.

The yard is vibrant, a lively, rich green, dotted here and there with tufts of fuzzy dandelions. He frowns tepidly, he can’t seem to get rid of them. But on the bright side, the apple trees the two of planted are coming in nicely, poking up above the grass determinedly. He’s contemplated planting apricots too, but that might just be excessive. You both already have more fruit than you know what to do with. A good portion of it goes to the wildlife, thrown into the tree line just so they don’t get bold and wander directly onto your homestead.

“Would you just-”

Your voice draws his gaze, his fractured attention and he’s immediately pulled into the allure of your presence. Hard to believe you saved the world in a deadlock battle with a literal god less than 5 years ago, dressed as you are and appearing as soft and gentle as the cotton shirt you’re wearing.

“Stop planning home improvement jobs and…come here?” you sigh the last bit wistfully, airily, sweetly.

You’ve put a smile on his face, like you always do. He chuckles warmly, grateful for how well you know him, how you never seem to tire of his presence.

He crosses the porch, his work boots thudding dully, and stands behind you, taking a moment to covet you. Covet your quiet strength, your resilient compassion, your uncanny wisdom for one so young, the patient way you love him. He covets that more than anything: your love for him.

His smile increases in warmth, until he’s sure it could melt butter, and then he smothers that smile in the side of your neck. He’s sure you feel it. His arms loop around, slip inside your own where they rest dangling over the porch railing. He leans into you, adjusting his stance until he’s pressed flush to your back and breathing in the scent of your skin.

What a siren song, your skin. He finds himself nuzzling into your neck before he can help himself, scratching you with his stubble. It draws a hearty laugh out of your throat that makes him beam proudly, smugly; He feels he robbed the world blind sometimes.

How could his life become so peaceful? How is it that he could trade his trench coat, and his slacks, and tie, and angel blade- how is it he could put all that away in a closet and trade it for simple home-life? That he can actually wear out a pair of boots, or dirty a Henley through yardwork? How insane is it that he’s had time to get a tan? Or pick up painting?

His eyes warm, unbidden. He plants three grateful kisses just under your ear, and sighs, dragging his gaze to your front yard. “It’s beautiful,” He peers over your shoulder, at your two glasses of homemade tea, with peach wedges on the rims (taken from your small orchard behind the house) and lays his temple against your own. “What we’ve made together.”

You grin widely, humor, and anticipation catching the corners of your lips, “Speaking of things we’ve made together…” You wonder if he’s noticed how untouched the liquor has been. Probably not.

Castiel’s own smile tweaks a bit with curiosity, “Hm?”

He has no idea how much busier his home-life is about to get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, that slice of life, huh? *sighs*


	7. Seek And Ye Shall Find

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's fine with what it is the two of you have, he's content to have a friend, one that genuinely fits that label. There's no judgement or side-long stares steeped in mistrust. Lately though, he's felt something else just below the surface, skimmed the skin of it, and wondered if you notice it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Luci one-shot. I'm weak. And lazy about stories I need to finish, but all my loyal readers know this. Love you guys!

It’s warm, warm, and constricting and feeling very much like a back-up plan gone to shit in a handbasket- a handbasket on fire -and he’s dragging his mind through points A to Z wondering where exactly it all went wrong, and-

“How do I always end up trapped in holy fire?” He muses to himself, staring at the ghostly flames swaying and snaking in the air, casting shadows across the floor that coil into your legs. He stares over your shoulder, avoiding the unmissable poke of a blade through the back of your jacket, the blood dripping down your shoulder, soaking into the waistline of your jeans. The handle is buried, nearly flush with the front of your shoulder.

Lucifer gauges the situation like he does: brushes it all off like a minor hitch in the day planner, and sprinkles it with wry wit, “Company’s better this time, though.” He notes, drawing a disapproving cut of your eyes before you’re facing your captors again. Angels. Which is why they’ve made no moves to remove you from the circle.

Outnumbered, no denial there. Outmatched…possibly.

“How you feeling, Y/N?” He asks, because he supposes he should. I mean, you do have an angel blade buried in your shoulder, after all.

You shake your head, grip the handle, and yank it out of your flesh in one strong pull. Muscle tears, sinew is serrated and bone scrapes against the sharp edge of the blade on its way out. It hurts, but you don’t have the time to dwell on pain. “I need to sync with him- whatever the hell that altar was about,” you spare a look at it across the room, incense burning on the floor, a bowl of pitch black…something spilled over and slopped across the floor, “It jolted our connection, just a few degrees…”

Lucifer casts a dark look at that altar he destroyed on his way in, his big entrance, cut short when he caught sight of you crumpled and shaking down on one knee, surrounded by angels. He didn’t know what it was about either, but he ventured a guess it was what had you playing the underdog card.

“But it was enough, huh? Not all juiced up, anymore?” He wonders, straightens the cuffs of his rolled sleeves and takes stock of the opponents. Not good. Outnumbered, undeniably outmatched.

“I need you to buy time,” You say quietly, crouching down, “I’ll be vulnerable.”

Lucifer bristles, “This seems like a half-cocked plan that only a half-cocked Winchester would be able to come up with,” He takes the bloodied angel blade from your hand, crouching down with you, “Spending way too much time with ‘em, Y/N.”

A soft quirk of your lips, bow your head, even your breathing. The angels around you shift uncomfortably, steal glances at one another, unsure.

“Not worried I’ll cut and run?” He asks you, near-whispering, grip tightening on the blade in his hand, slick with your blood.

“The only way we both make it out is if _I_ make it out.” Is the only retort mixed advice you offer before you slip off into a deep slumber, diving into the abyss of consciousness.

Lucifer frowns, frowns because that is _so inconvenient._ But, when the lights dim, when shadows crawl towards the center of the room- drawn to you by some unknown force that makes the air in his chest feel heavy -and the flames flicker precariously, he stands. Stands behind you, over you, waits for the other angels to make a decision, and curses how utterly his day has gone to complete shit thanks to you. You’re just the worst. And that’s saying something because he is occasionally self-aware.

A hiss, a pop, the flames die abruptly, shadows leap towards your prone form, and Lucifer hopes your realignment won’t take too long. Because five against one isn’t his kind of odds, especially given his mood for today: Intentionally lazy.

A flutter of wings and he’s time enough to dodge a blade thrust at the back of his head, it glides past his cheekbone, slicing skin. Lucifer grabs that extended forearm, throws the angel forward into the ringleader, and he’s rushed at both sides. A parry with the blade, metal singing in the air, Lucifer plants a solid kick into a stockier opponent, grabs an incoming arc from the other ambusher, and shoves his angel blade up into the concave curvature of the careless angel’s ribcage.

A flash of light, he falls to the floor and his wings are scorched into the concrete. Lucifer’s focus is immediately tied to the remaining four- make that three, as one overestimates their arm reach and leaves themselves wide open, chest waiting for a blade -sparing you no glances. He’s aware of your position, relative to himself. In front, below, thigh height, breathing like you’re doing yoga.

They pounce on him at once, blades glinting, teeth bared in malice, and he can’t dodge all the hits coming for him. He counterstrikes, uncommitted to damage dealing- one grabs the collar of the back of your jacket as he’s busy dodging a blade aimed for his throat. He thinks not at all about what he does- throws the blade dripping in your blood at that angel. It slides nicely into the dip of his collarbone and he dies, fingers going slack as he slumps to the floor and burns his wings into the porous surface of cement.

Lucifer takes a heavy hit to the stomach, a debilitating slice to the tendons between his shoulder blades, bites back a growl of irritation, blocks a punch headed for his nose, and takes a boot to the side for his effort. Shadows quaver on the fringe of your form, pulled thin and spindly, dark as tar, and the room feels as if it constricts on itself, walls shrink, windows capture refractions of light so deeply it blurs.

Lu breathes a quiet sigh of relief when your shoulders tighten into place and your breathing tilts back to normal. The room shifts, colors harden, air stales, and a hush falls. Something ice-cold seeps into Lucifer’s vessel, it’s so cold it _burns_ , and if he didn’t know it was you it would have him in a panic.

But that sharp chill inside him settles, pauses, then recedes.

The angels flanking him are frozen on the spot, mid-attack, eyes wide, darting to and fro. Lucifer rolls his shoulders, rubbing in the fact that he can, and slides away, sticking his tongue out at them for good measure.

He offers you a hand, seemingly second-nature about it, the camaraderie behind the simple action. There is a swaying sense of déjà vu as your hand lands in his own, clenches tight and he hauls you to your feet. All of a sudden it isn’t your eyes he’s staring into but a pair of red-hued orbs, sprinkled with rust orange and fire yellow, striations of each color so closely threaded the irises appear to shift and roil like the churning of ocean waves.

And then you talk, talk and its your voice and he’s back in the present. In a place where he needs to be at least five feet away from you, no physical contact, no excessive talking. He has to keep his distance, he tells himself as you brush passed him on your way to the ruined altar to investigate.

You’re not the same, he needs to remember that. Needs to keep his memories in order, locked in a box, filed, alphabetically, chronologically, numerically…

Sure, he saved your life, for no reason other than he had time and nothing better to do, and he didn’t particularly mind jumping in to help you out. He doesn’t even plan on holding this over your head. Which he could. He’s tempted.

You crouch down, run a finger through the spilled substance, and Lucifer folds his arms over his chest, peeks past his shoulder at the frozen angels, and muses, blocking out your voice: you’re talking still, but he doesn’t know if it’s to yourself or if it’s to him. Either way, he’s not intent to pay attention.

Thing is, thing that’s thrown him for a loop: when you were in trouble today, here, in this warehouse, you prayed for help. But you prayed…to him. Not Castiel, but him. He was first choice, your first call.

He doesn’t know what to do with that. The two of you are constantly at each other’s throats. It kind of reminds Lucifer of his relationship with Michael to an extent. There’s no righteousness to you when you squabble though, it’s just simple aggravation, and Lucifer appreciates that. The simple irritation.

With Michael Lucifer isn’t _Lucifer,_ he’s Satan.

With you, he’s Lucifer. Sometimes, even, when you fall from angry to disappointed, he’s _“Lu.”_  

It’s strange as much as it familiar and the whole dynamic rocks him back on his heels when he takes a moment to think about it all. Think about all the chances the two of you have had to genuinely kill one another, and how both of you have those moments slip through your fingers like sand.

Lu.

Like you can’t be bothered to say his whole name…he isn’t sure it’s laziness. He thinks it might be something else. But what, he couldn’t say. There’s something daunting about you, something that makes him pause for reasons unspecified.

He lets you sass him, doesn’t mind it, shoots right back with wit just as sharp when he could crush your spine with a snap of his fingers. He wonders why he never does.

You’re still crouched, still investigating, silent as you think.

“You’re bleeding.” He says, for something to say, to stop his thoughts before he works himself into waspish anger due to the dead-ends of his mind.

No recognition from you, nothing to say you heard.

He glances out the windows, into the fields of brome grass and ragweed swaying in the breeze as purple thunder heads roll in on a western breeze, carrying a looming threat of rain and lightning, and even more unpleasantness to his day. He could leave. He’s done what he needs to, saved you. When he didn’t have to. Why did he?

And why is he crouched down next to you, a hand curled around your shoulder, pouring grace into your wound to heal you? Why?

He can see the question on your face clear as day as you look at him with furrowed brows and a slack jaw. It’s there. A definitive question, a question that will lead to more questions, reveal things, make him think long and hard about the box of secrets he harbors within the dark corners of his heart. He can see the urge, see you fight it as the line of your brow hardens, and feels equal parts relief and disappointment as you don’t say anything.

You don’t ask. He doesn’t supply an answer, just acknowledges something hidden between you, something neither of you will take the time to shine up and put on a shelf. Let it gather dust, lose luster, crack, get lost in cobwebs and shadows until you both forget it’s even there.

There are too many questions swimming in the silence, big questions that don’t even need to be voiced to be heard, and the two of you swallow them down in resilient stubbornness.

You turn back to the altar, examining the ingredients with more focus than is believably needed, and Lucifer does the same, finds nothing in the details he couldn’t see from a mile away.

He sighs tightly, and stands. He sees you stiffen when he reaches his full height, and brushes off the twinge of offense he feels to turn back to those angels. Still statuesque, fearful, silent, no psychic waves coming off of them, they can’t call for help.

Lucifer worries sometimes about pushing your buttons too hard, worries you might kill him one day on a whim. Worries he might kill you one day on a whim.

He shakes his head and picks up a dropped angel blade from that short scuffle.

You’ve got him all out of sorts today, and he isn’t really there for it. He can’t even work up the snark he wants to bury you in, he glances at you, crouched and quiet, and realizes- as he stabs one of the angels through the eye socket -that he was worried about you.

He felt genuine concern when he arrived and saw you prone and helpless on the ground, bleeding. You had scared him through no feat of your own, all it took was for him to see you bleed and suddenly he’s lost everything he knew about you.

He still feels concern. It’s high-jacked his optic nerves, his eyes jump to you- he jams the blade into the last angel’s chest and leaves the blade in his corpse -drawn like a magnet. He doesn’t like it, it makes his skin itch irritably, makes his jaw ache with what he assumes is nausea.

He falls back to his default. Callousness, detached snark.

“Would you like a to-go box for that, ma’am?”  

You throw a sour look at him over your shoulder with practiced ease, “Get me a jar.” You say, pointing to a hanging shelf on the opposite side of the room.

He huffs, curls his lip, “Get me a jar..?”

You twist at the waist, giving him more of your attention, a better view of your unimpressed expression. “Get me a jar…dick.”

He splutters, taken off guard, beside himself with indecision and just a fair amount of dry irritation. You hold his gaze evenly, but there’s no challenge, only a little confusion yourself, and he realizes after a moment why. This default interaction of threats and insults sprinkled with the bare minimum of venom and exacerbation is your brand of comradery and friendship. It’s how the both of you function together, second nature, with ease and loose meaning.

This is the usual, and he’s treating it like an unappointed kick in the head. He’d respond back with a sneer, or a whiplash insult of his own, but he’s standing here, staring at you in confusion like a kicked dog and that’s not the dynamic the two of you have.

This little rescue mission has him turned completely around.

“You alright over there?” You ask him, an eyebrow cocked.

He clears his throat, rolls his eyes and grunts, “Just in awe of your stupidity: sassing Satan.”

You chuff, click your tongue, “Please, you respect nothing but sass. Jar. Other side of the room.” With that you turn back to the altar and its spilled ingredients.

With a soft shake of his head and little more than resigned astonishment, he pads over to the shelf and peruses the collection of jars thereupon. Dusty and housing screws, nails, washers and bolts, some of them containing mysterious congealed substances, he frowns.

“Hey, grab two.”

He swivels his head. You’re crouched on the other side of the overturned table, pawing through other things, paying no mind to him.

Lucifer sighs, a seed of impatience growing in the pit of his stomach born from this sudden unknown pocket appearing in the worn, well-known aspect of his friendship with you. Like a coat, he shrugs it on when he’s around you, comforted by its snugness and the knowledge of the contents of all the pockets, the familiar frays at the seams, the unevenness of the pull strings that he toys with and you playfully pull in a bid to strangle him. He knows about the missing buttons, and the way the zipper stalls and gets stuck halfway up.

He knows the ins and outs of this friendship better than he knows himself, but suddenly there’s a new pocket, hiding on the inside, near his breast, and he’s apprehensive about reaching in, curiosity beaten to a pulp under his stupefaction and pale fear of the unknown.

He screws a lid off one of the jars and dumps the contents onto the floor, lips anchored down in a brittle pout as his mind runs itself in a ragged circle. Bits of metal bounce off his boots, roll away, hide under cabinets and disappear into shadows. He wishes the same for that pocket.

Another jar, more things spilled and disappearing. Out of sight out of mind. Rolled away into the darkness where meaning is stolen and easily forgotten.

A jar of random bits of junk, rusted nails, leftovers from projects, tossed into a jar that likely hasn’t been opened in years. Haven’t been used-

He dumps it. Holds the empty jar, see-through and unassuming, and throws it at the wall, smashing it into countless pieces. Making it unusable, pointless, making it simple.

The rest of the jars go the same way, smashed and crushed and thrown harshly, a blur from his hand to their impact in the wall. Shards of glass surround his feet, sea green, diamond white, a weak outlet of his inward directed irritation. He’s not satisfied with his mayhem, with the mess, it seems only to mock, to reflect an offensive amount. How very eerie it is that he’s visibly orchestrated how feels, how he’s self-conscious suddenly, but burying it under restrained anger and cold aloofness.

He toes the shards, crunches them under the worn sole of his boot, justified he feels, in their destruction. His eyes jolt to the work bench underneath the shelf and lands on the two jars you asked for.

There seems to be a weight to this hidden pocket now, one that pushes into the curvature of his ribcage, towards the dark chasm of the heart he’s convinced was burned out of him with his wings during his Fall.

He wants to break those jars just to spite you, to spite himself. To spite everything.

You clear your throat brusquely, and he stiffens where he is, glaring at those dirt-caked mason jars that haven’t done a damn thing wrong in their entire existence.

“You alright over there?”

Genuine concern? He grinds the shards of glass into fine powder under his boot and sighs. “Stellar.” He snatches them up and marches over, expression dark but reason thereof unreadable.

He holds them out to you, a challenging glint in his eye daring you to ask. You don’t.

You take them patiently, unconcerned with his mood swing, and that pisses him off: your lack of fear of him. But it doesn’t quite piss him off as much as he’s sure it should.

“I’m sure the jars had it coming.” You remark with a shrug as you begin the spilled herbs and tiny add-ins from the altar.

No pushing or prodding, no curiosity as you take care of the job at hand, and Lucifer wonders if he’s making a mountain out of a molehill. Maybe the dynamic hasn’t changed, maybe he’s reading something into nothing?

“Hey, thanks for saving my bacon,” You say, tightening the lid of a jar, tucking it into your jacket pocket.

He grunts. And begins his silent run on the hamster wheel inside his head again.

“Didn’t think you’d show up, actually.”

No? “Then why did you pray to me?” He asks you, pissy as a drenched cat.

“You wouldn’t try to negotiate your way out, or cave under any demands. You’d hold your own, wouldn’t have to worry about you,” you explain in detached nature as you scoop some of that thick black goo into the jar with the blade of a ritual knife.

Lucifer stares down at you from the corner of his eye, “Don’t think Cassie boy could’ve handled it? He’d jump on a blade in a hot second if you told him to.”

You pause momentarily, scraping the blade of the knife along the rim of the jar. “No, he’d do it _for me_ , not if I told him to. That’s why I prefer we fight separate battles.”

Lucifer cocks an eyebrow. “He thinks he knows what’s better for you than you do,” He realizes, folding his arms over his chest.

You shrug, hesitant to agree, as it sounds like you’re bad talking Castiel for a good quality. “I’m grateful he cares- by rights, he shouldn’t. Should be trying to kill me…” No matter how many times that trenchcoated angel proves his loyalty and devotion you still feel flabbergasted, positive he’s wrong about you at the end of the day.

Lucifer offers up a nugget of information, a thorn, a waiting fire in your friendship tricycle. “Should be prepared for drama when we go back,”

You frown, gauge the amount of goo in the jar, how much more might be needed to test, and glance at him. “Why?”

“Oh, was just having a little heart-to-heart with your favorite angel when you rang,” He tells you, tone all whoopsie daisy, and what are you gonna do?

You sigh heavily, “Rubbed it in didn’t you? That I was praying to you and not him?” Silence meets your question and you drop your head with another tired sigh, “Dammit, Lucifer.”

You shove the jar into your other jacket pocket and stand. He’s smug as a fox in a henhouse.

“Don’t blame it on me, Y/N. Not my fault you don’t trust him in a fight.” He shrugs, flops his arms to his sides and grins at you, boyish, but very prickly.

You shake your head, guilt tugging at your heart strings for how you’ve inadvertently, certainly, hurt Castiel. “Let’s head back.” You mutter, rubbing a hand along the back of your neck.

A glint of metal around your wrist captures Lucifer’s attention. Paperclips latched onto one another, looped around your thin wrist, and a small charm dangling from them. A wing. Black and glossy.

That hidden pocket of your friendship gains a few pounds, digs deeper into his ribcage with sour fury.

He’s all too happy to please. He swings an arm around your shoulder, flaps his wings, and you’re both smack-dab in the center of the compound during the busy hours when people are prepping for dinner and taking stock of supplies. He redirects your attention, asking about good ‘ol Eustace.

You could complain about Eustace until the cows came home, and he knows it. He listens to you vent, cheerfully, eyes pinned to your cabin where you keep the office that you and Dean operate from, keeping this place running. Incidentally, that’s where he left your angel, promising he’d have you home in a jiffy, _“Possibly still in a Y/N vaguely shaped piece.”_

You’re still jabbering, grumbling, a few feet from the front patio when the door swings open swiftly and Castiel rushes through it, large stride and stiff limbs.

You cut off mid-sentence, struck in surprise momentarily at his blustery appearance. But you’re happy to see him.

His expression is stony, but pained. It shifts, somewhere between confusion and betrayal, and then righteous fury when he looks at Lucifer. Before you can get a word out, he disappears from view.

“Huh,” Lucifer puckers his mouth into a pout. “Wonder what’s got him riled.”

But you’re quick to do math, adding up everything that’s happened.

Lucifer’s jab at Castiel that wasn’t merely sibling squabble. The radio silence of not praying for him once he knew you were in danger, stuck waiting in the cabin, hoping Lucifer would bring you back, a slim bet. Your arrival back, the walk through the compound, free of worry as you vented your woes to the Devil himself, appearing companionable to everyone you passed.

Your walk up to the house, complaining with a voice dripping in exasperation, Castiel’s abrupt appearance and your sudden silence at seeing him. Your chummy dynamic with Lucifer- who you realize still has his arm looped around your shoulder -the whole situation.

It most likely appears as if you’re talking behind Castiel’s back…replacing him with Lucifer.

This whole day seems like evidence of that. Your stomach drops, rolls with guilt.

You shrug off his arm, brow pinching. You stomp across the threshold, his footsteps behind you. You turn, catch his eye, and shut the door in his face. Not intended to keep him out, but send a message. One he ignores.

He’s sitting in your desk chair when you face the room, his eyes sharp, perceptive, carrying a loose attempt at innocence. It falls flatly when you pin him with a fiery glare.

He moves some papers around your desk, “Those little foxes, huh? Spoiling the vine.”

Your teeth grind, “Sounds like a confession.”

He looks at you, briefly, bored. “Sounds like you’re angry.”

He watches you fight. Fight it down, that destructive power that could level the planet in a two-second tantrum, how it’s aimed at him, and how you fight not to hurt him. He’s never had that, someone fighting themselves to spare him pain.

“How astute,” You spit, as colors shift in your vision, bleed dry. You’re looking at the world in black and white, and red, trying not to paint a target on the angel in your desk chair.

Lucifer rolls his eyes at you. “Well, I am the Devil. Don’t pretend you’re mad at me,” He intones dryly, leaning forward boring his gaze into you.

“No, I’m furious with you.” You protest, heartrate increasing, fingers twitching.

He stands, chair rolling into the wall some ten feet away with a loud smack, and that tells you how much your vision has shifted. Lucifer appears to be moving at a human speed, but you know his movements are truly faster than a bullet from a gun.

“Wrong,” He says, tone brittle, disapproving, “You just don’t want to admit the truth.”

_Easy, Y/N. Don’t do something you can’t take back. He’s a dick, but he certainly doesn’t deserve his spine pulled out through his mouth…yet._ Advice, patient, and piercing like a light through fog from your co-habitant rings loud and clear in your mind.

You close your eyes, lean back into the door and breath until the blood stops rushing through your ears, blocking out common sense.

“Truth is, Y/N, you’d rather spend time with me than that angel you claim to care so much about,” He skirts the mass of your desk, watching you warily, fully aware that if you decide to kill him he won’t be able to outrun you. Even so, he continues talking, “You take me with you into every fight, against your better judgement, you _do_ trust me. You are more open with me than you are with anyone else in that nuclear concoction you call ‘family’-”

“Shut up,” You sigh with a weak shake of your head, Castiel’s expression of confused heartbreak at the forefront of your mind.

Oh, but why would he listen to you?

“In the past month we’ve spent more time together than you have with your angel in the past six months. You don’t take him with you because you feel guilty about the devotion he has towards you. Why? Because you don’t feel the same-”

“How would you know?” You snap at him, eyes flying open. The background is a light shade of what it should be, but he’s in full-color, suddenly in front of you.

He disregards your question, “You tell me everything. Everything that matters. All that heavy shit, and the doubt, and those fleeting minute aspirations. You tell me about the darkest parts of you that are _you_. You can’t lie to me, Y/N.”

He says that like he’s known forever when he’s only begun to realize today.

“Your reluctance to bring him into fights is selfish, it’s not about him, it’s about you. What’s easier for you. And being with me is easier,” He’s convinced himself, completely, since he came to a realization staring down at those broken mason jars. Since you told him about Castiel and your desire to keep him at arm’s length under the guise of concern and care, good intentions and he knows all about those.

“Doesn’t mean it’s right,” You argue, narrowing your eyes at him in defiance.

His lips twitch with a weak smile. One of his hands grasps your forearm, the other grabs your hand and gaze drawn downward, he pushes the sleeve of your jacket up your arm. That thrown together bracelet seems to wink up at the both of you, that tiny black wing glinting in what you take as victory for Lucifer, but a coffin nail for you.

“Doesn’t mean you don’t want it,” he retorts quietly, voice carrying a note of cockiness and relief, like a weight has left his shoulders.

You stare down at the links of paper clips in betrayal, in denial, a pit in your stomach that burns you from the inside. “What I want doesn’t matter.” You say, more to yourself than him and his grip tightens. “I have amends to make.” Your free hand turns the knob behind you and you shove the door open. You slip from his hold, and duck out into the sunlight without a backward glance.

_Cas, where are you?_ You pray, waiting for his response, or more what you deserve: silence. You wait for silence, and instead you’re met with his deep timber inside your mind. And you head straight for him, haste in your stride, an itch in your blood and there’s fire at your back as Lucifer watches you go.

Lucifer leans on the doorjamb to your cabin and trains his eyes on you until you disappear entirely from his view, and he huffs a disgruntled sigh. He’ll miss the simplicity of your friendship but he doesn’t regret dragging the truth into the light. You’ll eventually have to square up with it, and he’s already setting his stamina up for that day. You’re stubborn.

But more than that, you’re guilty, and that guilt will drown you, will drive you straight towards him because he’ll absolve you of it. Everyone else will judge, but he’ll be your sanctuary. He just has to wait.

“Those little foxes, huh, Y/N?” He smirks, dangling your bracelet in front of his face. He pockets it, closes your cabin door and heads towards the library, intent on annoying a moose with sideburns until he’s threatened with a holy fire Molotov.

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who have read What's It To 'Ya? and Crossroads, I'm sure you're wondering: "Jesus Christ, just how old is the reader in these (loosely connected) one-shots?" Roughly, about 20,21, though some of them push into the mid-twenties range. Let me say just say: none of it is underage, I'm not about that.


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